


Cleaning House

by Wendolene



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-17 12:38:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3529766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wendolene/pseuds/Wendolene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is tired of living in Sherlock's wake and hires a housekeeper.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beeginning

   After the busiest day in the history of the clinic, John Watson dreams of sitting on his arse, knocking back a pint, and watching a match, but as he opens the door of 221B he realizes that his dreams have died, and Sherlock most certainly will be killed next.

   There are bees everywhere. And honey. Honey. And bees. Fucking everywhere, as if every single hive in England has been transported to the flat and summarily exploded. Honey oozes down the walls while swarms of angry, buzzing, heat-seeking missiles cloud the flat.

   In the midst of the fog lies Sherlock Holmes, reposing on the sofa in full beekeeping gear, hands tented in deep meditation. Somehow, he's utterly pristine. His gear is stark white, and his supine length is the only thing in the flat not absolutely drenched in golden syrup. 

   Of course Sherlock is unmolested. John decides Sherlock's the actual eye of a storm. Tropical storm Sherlock. John Watson surveys the scene for 1.5 seconds. And then a bee stings his buttock.

   John Watson has been to war.

   John Watson has been shot.

   John Watson has killed.

   John Watson may kill again.

   For now, however, John backs out the way he came in. Instinctually defensive, he's not willing to expose his apparently tasty bum to more connoisseurs of fine arse, and he slams the door shut so hard the walls rattle. A squadron of bees immediately lift off through the keyhole in angry pursuit.

   Drawn to investigate the noise, Mrs. Hudson hurries toward John. He grabs her hand and pulls her outside 221 to the streets of London. It is pitch black and deserted, and somehow much safer than his former flat, now apiary.

   For the first time in his life, John is thrilled when the black car pulls to the kerb. "After you, madam," he prompts Mrs. Hudson, and they collapse in relief into the car's plush leather seats. John immediately bounces back up, because his left buttock hurts like a sonofabitch, and he shifts to dangle it off the seat to alleviate the pressure.

   On the opposite seat, facing them, sits Mycroft Holmes. After a moment spent quietly assessing the exhiled pair, he nods and assures them, "It will be managed."


	2. Things That Go Bump in the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has been exhiled to the Holmes mansion. He heads to the kitchen for a cuppa and subsequently suffers permanent psychological damage.

   "Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High" startles John from his sleep. He burrows into the plush sheets of the bed in Mycroft's guest room and tries to ignore the ringtone. Until Alex Turner beseeches him again. And again.

   John angrily saunters across the room to pull his phone from his trouser pocket, sighing when he sees the time. "It's three in the morning. What the fuck, Sherlock?"

   "Come home, John," Sherlock demands, "It's sorted."

   "I'll be home soon, but things must change. I'll see you in the morning," John assures him.

   "Fair enough," agrees Sherlock, promptly hanging up. 

   John shakes his head at no one, all hope of rest abandoned. Grabbing a bathrobe, he meanders toward the kitchen, which might actually be in Scotland, as sprawling as the Holmes mansion is.

   Entering the kitchen desiring only a hot Darjeeling, John is surprised to find it already occupied. In the middle of the gigantic room, splayed across the central kitchen island, is Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. Wearing only . . . ice cream toppings? John stares at Scotland Yard's finest in horror.

   Someone behind him clears his throat to shift John's attention. "Would you like a cup of tea, John?" John startles and looks back toward Mycroft, who is absolutely immaculate in a bespoke suit, but his blown pupils, red flush, and the tray of ice-cream toppings he holds belie his countenance of chill.

   "Jesus Christ. OK. Yes, please." 

   John begins nervously rambling, "So, this, is? Never mind. I know what this is. Same as what everyone thinks I'm up to with Sherlock. But I'm not gay. Wait, you're not gay. When?"

   Greg unashamedly props himself up on one arm looking for all the world like he's modeling for a kitchen advert, albeit covered in banana-split fixings. As he shifts, a cherry plops to the floor. Greg owns this. Proudly. "Right after Baskerville."

   "Jesus Christ," John says again.

   "Have a flake, John," says Mycroft, setting the tray in front of him. A phone somewhere on Mycroft's person begins to beckon, "I Want a New Drug" He answers it, nods, and disconnects.

   "John, Sherlock says he needs you at home. I'll have a driver take you and Mrs. Hudson when you're ready in the morning." 

   Mycroft turns to look toward Greg, "And, Sherlock ordered _me_ to lay off the sweets."

   "Jesus Christ," swear Greg and John together.


	3. Get In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caught in the act by John (and a somehow clairvoyant Sherlock), Mycroft and Greg decide to take their dessert in their bedroom.

   "Well, that was a mood-killer," says Greg as John heads back to his room.

   "I think quite the opposite, my darling. The delay has only increased my desire," reassures Mycroft, "Let's just move this course to our room."

   "But . . ." Greg sweeps a hand over his body to indicate that transporting a human banana split might be somewhat messy.

   Mycroft rolls a chair over to Greg, "Not a problem. Get in."

   "That what she said," Greg deadpans.

   "And _there's_ the mood killer," Mycroft rolls his eyes, but they immediately still and fill with lust as a detective inspector sprinkled with sweets rises to avail himself of Mycroft's chauffeuring services.

   Greg grabs a towel and gives it a snap toward Mycroft's bum before using it to cover the chair. "Home," he orders, as he sits obscenely in the chair, legs splayed over its arms. He swipes one finger through the whipped cream on his abdomen, and, as he sticks it in his mouth and sucks, the bastard stares right at Mycroft.

   " _Fuck_ ," thinks Mycroft, and precedes to set a new land-speed record for chair racing as he wheels the detective to their room and summarily dumps him on their bed.

   Greg rolls to the middle of the bed as Mycroft stops to take off his suit. As he pulls off the jacket and chucks it on the now landspeed-world-record-holding chair, he makes an observation. "Gregory, you've strawberry topping just there," he says, running a finger over his own lips. Under Mycroft's watchful eye, Gregory removes the topping and licks it carefully off his finger, looking lustfully at Mycroft all the while.

   After removing his waistcoat, Mycroft runs a finger over his own cloth-covered nipple, "chocolate sauce," he whispers. After Greg takes a swipe through the offending sauce, Mycroft's eyes are drawn down to Greg's hardening cock.

   The rest of Mycroft's clothing joins the heap on the chair much more quickly. As his trousers fall, Mycroft runs his hand over his own bulge, "A couple of nuts there, love."

   "Those are all yours," Greg responds. And Mycroft's tie, shirt, undershirt, pants, and socks quickly complete the pile on the chair.

   Mycroft pounces. As he begins devouring his personal banana split, he runs three fingers through the almond oil on Greg's thigh. As his mouth licks Greg's sweetness from head to toe, Mycroft hitches up Greg's left leg, wraps it around his waist, and begins slowly using the oil on Greg, while never pausing his mouth's ministrations.

   By the time Mycroft has licked down to take care of the nut situation, Greg Lestrade is begging, and Mycroft Holmes obliges.

   After damn-near-simultaneous orgasms, Greg shoots a lovestruck grin at Mycroft. "Nobody puts almond oil on banana splits," he teases.

   "It's my new favourite recipe," Mycroft insists. "I love you, Gregory Lestrade."

   Greg pecks him on the forehead and burrows his head into Mycroft's chest. "I love you, too, My. Sweet dreams."

   Mycroft pulls the duvet over them both, sighs gently, and they descend into oblivion without a care in the world for anything but each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mystrade is my ship. :)


	4. Road Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has sorted the mess at 221B (and subsequently sorted Greg Lestrade.) John and Mrs. Hudson head back to 221.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has become the fic that writes itself. :)

   John waits with Mycroft in the foyer. Somehow after a good night's sleep, nothing seems awkward anymore. Honestly, Greg and Mycroft are two of the three men he admires most in the world, so he couldn't be happier for them. He definitely won't be discussing last night with anyone else, out of pure respect for them both.

   They hear Mrs. Hudson approaching, saying goodbye to and profusely thanking Anthea, who has provided her with an entirely new outfit.

   As Mrs. Hudson steps into view, John wolf-whistles. "Honestly, John," Mrs. Hudson admonishes, but she is clearly secretly pleased. She looks lovely in a new poplin dress and matching hat, complete with a fresh lavender sprig.

   "All right, then?" asks Mycroft.

   "All right, then," agrees John, and gives Mycroft a meaningful clasp of the arm which turns into a supportive handshake. "You're the best, Mycroft Holmes. I hope to see you again soon."

   Mrs. Hudson wraps Mycroft in a motherly hug, which makes Mycroft's face redden, but his smile shows how much he appreciates it. He gives her a peck on each cheek, and escorts them both to the waiting car.

   In which there's a mini-bar. "Scotch?" asks Mrs. Hudson. It's nine in the morning.

   "Oh God, yes," begs John. "Neat, please."

   After more than one or two fingers of scotch have been enjoyed by them both, John realizes he should prepare to hit Sherlock with a barrage of logical facts as to why exactly he is currently in John's doghouse. But somehow, that's not what's on his mind.

   Because John starts thinking of all the funny things he should have said last night. Why is it that he can never think of them at the time?

 _"A **banana** split,"_ John thinks and looks toward the window to hide his grin, but he can't help giggling, and Mrs. Hudson raises an eyebrow in his direction.

    _"Oh God, I am twelve,"_ he decides.

   John desperately tries to maintain his composure, but then he thinks _"Nuts,"_ spits out his swig of scotch, and launches into a full-on, three-minute long guffaw. Mrs. Hudson dabs at the spill with a cocktail napkin and moves his glass out of his reach.

   "John. Care to share?"

   "I really can't Mrs. Hudson. I'm terribly sorry."

   "That's OK, dear. Clearly you haven't had enough rest, and you should be enjoying this little holiday, as brief as it is."

   Which does remind John that he must speak to Sherlock when he returns to 221B. This sobers him up. Until he thinks, _"squirts of whipped cream,"_ and is completely lost again.

   Mrs. Hudson smiles at him and leaves him to revel in the delight he cannot share. As they pull up to 221, John calms down. A little. He leans his head against the cool window.

   "It's almost a shame to be home," Mrs. Hudson observes. "I had such a delightful time. And those boys make such a sweet couple."

   John whips his head around to look at her. And as the driver opens the door for them he is greeted with the sight of both John and Mrs. Hudson laughing so hard that he feels compelled to offer both of his passengers a handkerchief to soak up their tears.


	5. Old Habits Die Hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John returns to 221B to confront Sherlock about his lack of respect for his personal space. Sherlock considers John's opinions.

   As John walks into 221B, his buzz is just beginning to wear off. Sherlock is stretched out on the sofa in his dressing gown, reading a tome bigger than John's head.

   "John, it's good to have you back."

    "I'm glad to be home, Sherlock, but we really need to discuss some things."

    "Bee in your bonnet?" Sherlock asks, clearly trying to lighten the mood.

   It doesn't work. John shoots him a glare. He takes a deep breath before he speaks. "Sherlock, the bees were not an isolated incident. I have been driven from this house too many times to count, and I must be able to rely on returning to a habitable living space after a hard day of work."

   "Conceded," agrees Sherlock.

   "No more sulfur?"

   "No more sulfur."

   "Thanks. I've also been upset about the general mess and clutter for awhile now."

   "Do elaborate," encourages Sherlock.

   "Well, for one, I'd like to be able to set my cuppa on the table next to my chair, but it's always covered with your papers."

   "Go on," says Sherlock, head cocked in (likely feigned) interest.

   "While you know I don't begrudge you your right to half of our living space, I would like to be able to enjoy a few safe zones. I'm not requesting that you discontinue any of your experiments, nor am I expecting you to reduce the squick factor. I'd just like more places to 'hang my hat,' so to speak."

   "Conceded," agrees Sherlock, "I'm a reasonable man."

   If John knows nothing else at all, he is perfectly aware that Sherlock Holmes is _not_ a reasonable man. _"Shit. Here it comes,"_ John thinks.

   Sherlock slowly places the giant volume he's been reading on a teetering stack of books nearby. He pauses for a moment, and John knows he's finalizing his counterargument. Sherlock looks straight into John's eyes and firmly remarks, "While we are on the subject, I would also like _you_ to cease violating _my_ personal space."

   What.

   "First of all, let's talk about airspace. How many times have I heard you recite every line in _Die Hard?_ I honestly find 'Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker!' quite banal, John."

   "OK, Sherlock. Conceded. If you think the noise from the telly will bother you, I'll wear headphones."

   "And a muzzle?" Sherlock requests.

   "Well, probably not that, but I'll work on keeping my personal soundtrack down when you need me to."

   "Acceptable," Sherlock says, but he's clearly not finished, "Another thing that I really don't appreciate is the odiferous violation of my airspace that occurs soon after you eat."

   "Oh, for fuck's sake, Sherlock, everyone has gas."

   Sherlock raises an eyebrow, "Ahh, but you eat far more, so therefore . . ."

   "No, Sherlock. _Not_ conceded."

   John is starting to raise his voice, and his rise in blood pressure is evident in his pinking face.

   "But I can prove it."

   "NO, SHERLOCK." Dammit. John knew this would escalate. But he refuses to compromise more than Sherlock has.

  "John. If I have to make concessions for you, shouldn't you make them for me?"

   They are now at an impasse, because John Watson is absolutely _not_ going to agree to stop eating. Or farting. Or hang his arse out the window to fart or however the hell he's supposed to appease Sherlock on this issue.

   Clearly, they have now achieved a full-on public domestic, because Mrs. Hudson has brought up a tea tray to bring them comfort.

   "Anything I can help with, boys?"

   "Did you happen to gather the post?" Sherlock asks.

   "Not your housekeeper, dear," Mrs. Hudson trills.

   John snaps his gaze from Mrs. Hudson to Sherlock with a sudden epiphany, shouting, "That's exactly what we need!"

   Sherlock gulps as John begins to smile, ever so slowly. It's clearly the grin of a madman.


	6. A Dirty Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is in charge of the housekeeper. Sure he is.

   John barges into 221B in the most excited mood he's been in since sometime before the bee stung his arse. "Sherlock, great news! I was at Bart's today, and I think I might have found a housekeeper."

   Sherlock looks up from his position reclining on the sofa. "Indeed, John? Go on."

   "Apparently they had this housekeeper at Bart's, and Mike said she did a fantastic job, but there was a small incident involving the tiniest bit of indecency, and she was dismissed. Nothing that could ever happen here. So she's coming over in a few minutes for a trial run."

   Sherlock grimaces. "All right, John. I'll pay my half of her fee, but I want no part in the assignment of her duties and her general management. And she'll need to mind my experimental space, of course. She's all yours. I'll be in my room."

   "Thanks Sherlock," John calls to Sherlock's now-retreating back.

   A few minutes later, John hears voices coming toward the door. "Are you sure he said _housekeeper_ , dear?"

   "Yes, Mrs. Hudson. I was explicitly told to meet a Dr. John Watson, who desperately needs someone to keep his place tidy."

   John hears Mrs. Hudson shout-whisper, "This can't end well," under her breath.

   "John dear," Mrs. Hudson trills, "You have a visitor!"

   John opens the door to Mrs. Hudson and his potential housekeeper. "Hello! Mrs. Hudson, did you happen to gather the post on the way?"

   "Not your ho---," Mrs. Hudson starts to say, when her companion interrupts.

   "I'll grab it! Dr. Watson, I presume?" John nods, as the blonde woman grabs his hand for a quick shake. "I'm Mary Morstan. It's lovely to meet you. I'll be right back." Mrs. Hudson shoots her a death-glare and follows her toward the post.

    _"Mary's cute,"_ John thinks. To his relief, she's also dressed sensibly, her large overcoat is downright dowdy. Mary returns with a few envelopes. John accepts them and gestures for her to have a seat in his chair as he sits on the sofa.

   "Mary, you come highly recommended, so I don't really feel the need to interview you. If you're comfortable working these hours at this rate," (he learns over to hand her an agreement), "we can give it a trial for a day and then formalize the agreement on the next afternoon you work."

   Mary glances over the agreement, and her quick (and cute) smile makes it clear that she is pleased. "This is more than acceptable, Dr. Watson. I'll just get started then." And she eagerly hops up.

   "Well," says John, "it might seem quite generous, but let me tell you a thing or two about my flatm . . ." Mary takes off her coat.

   And John Watson loses the ability to formulate a single thought, much less speech.

   Mary Morstan stands before him in a housekeeper's outfit that makes every porn star in the history of film seem amateurish. John finds his eyes drawn and glued to the feather duster she's tucked into a black garter on her right thigh.

   "Oh," she says, noting his gaze, "would you like me to start with running my feathers over your surfaces? Or, would you prefer a bit of Hoovering?"

   She did not just look at John's crotch as she said that. He imagined that, didn't he? And he absolutely must have imagined that tiny flick of her tongue, he decides.

   "Um. Dusting. Dusting sounds . . . appropriate," John stammers, "Thank you. I must excuse myself for a bit to . . . um . . . call my grandmother."

   John Watson's cock has achieved the fastest, hardest erection he's had since Emily Dee, head cheerleader, breathily whispered "Fuck me" in his ear after a rugby match.

   "Certainly, Dr. Watson. I'll be sure to give everything a good oil-rubbing, too." And as his (oh yes, his) housekeeper bends over to disengage her feather duster, he gets an up-close-and-personal view of her black lace thong.

   "Carry on then," says John, who calmly walks to the stairs, and then scrambles up them as quickly as he can, because, damned if he isn't going to have a colossal wank right the fuck now.

   Some time later, he returns downstairs at the same time that Sherlock walks into the room. Mary's coat is back on; she's finished for the day.

   "All set, then?" John asks. "Mary Morstan, this is my flatmate, Sherlock Holmes."

   "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Holmes," Mary chirps.

  "The pleasure is all . . . ," Sherlock begins, but he's just got a look at John, and Sherlock _knows._

   Sherlock recovers quickly and walks away from John to escort Mary to the door. "Mary, it looks as if you've done a lovely job. By the way, there's a bulb that needs replacing right outside the door."

   Mary pats Sherlock's hand gently and coos, "Not your landlady, dear," as she takes her leave.

   Sherlock Holmes is stunned into silence. For one entire second. Then he pulls his mobile out of his dressing gown. "Mycroft. We have a situation."


	7. Another Sting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary is quite exposed. John looks, but can't touch. At first, anyway.

   John eagerly whips open the door for Mary. It's her fifth visit, and all of them have been similar: Mary has a brief discussion with John, and John slips off to call his grandmother.

   This time, however, Sherlock intercepts John as the doctor saunters toward the stairs. Grabbing his arm, Sherlock says, "Case, John."

   "But Mary's here," protests John.

   "No matter, perhaps Mrs. Hudson will treat her to tea and biscuits while we're out," Sherlock reassures him.

   "That's not what I meant," John mutters under his breath as the men exit the flat.

   "Mary, dear," calls Mrs. Hudson, "do you have time for tea?"

   "Sure, Mrs. Hudson, that sounds lovely!"

   As the two ladies talk, the conversation naturally turns to Sherlock and John. "I've honestly always hoped they'd become a couple," says Mrs. Hudson, "because with all the cases they work on and how attentive they are to each other, they are as good as married already."

   "Oooh, tell me about the cases!" encourages Mary.

   "Well, they get up to some dangerous business, are shot at and hurt, and fall into the Thames on the regular. But it's nothing like when they work on something with Mycroft. In fact, I think they're working on something pretty big right now." She leans in and whispers conspiratorially, "State secrets, you know."

   "Mycroft. That's Sherlock's brother, right?" asks Mary.

   "Yes. And if you ever meet him, be wary, Mary." And Mrs. Hudson giggles because she made a rhyme.

   Mary joins in her laughter just as there is loud bustling at the door, which Sherlock, Mycroft, John, and a silver-haired man burst through. The man is rapidly giving instructions: "Mycroft, I've messaged you the passcode, and John, I've emailed you the schematics for the prototype. Look at them as quickly as possible, and then delete them, please."

   Then the man catches sight of Mary at the table with Mrs. Hudson. "Well, hello there. Detective Inspector Gregory Lastrade at your service, m'am." He kisses Mary's offered hand and nods at Mrs. Hudson. "Mrs. Hudson," he acknowledges.

   Greg's eyes turn back to look down at Mary, who has more cleavage falling out than she has tucked in. Mrs. Hudson glares at him. John glares at him. Mycroft glares at him, and then looks to Sherlock, who silently mouths, "See?"

   Mary senses the hostility in the kitchen, and offers to take their coats. "I should be getting back to work," she notes, as the men hand her their outerwear.

   As she leaves the room, Sherlock places a hand on John's shoulder to stop him from following her. John glares at Sherlock, who is glaring at Mary. Mrs. Hudson is also glaring at Mary. Mycroft _was_ glaring at Mary but is turning toward Greg.

   Greg gulps, "Well, that went swimmingly."

   As they all are having tea, coffee, and biscuits, Mary pops her head in the room to let them know she's leaving.

   "Let me walk you to the door," Greg requests. As soon as Mary and Greg start walking, everyone else rises to follow, and Sherlock grabs his mobile.

   And the second Mary is on the other side of the threshold, her coat begins to sing. Her left pocket croons, "Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High?" while her right demands a new drug.

   Greg's hand firms on her arm. "Mary Morstan, you are under arrest for theft." He looks Mycroft dead in the eyes while he says to her, "I'm going to have to pat you down." Mycroft walks over and solidly kicks one of Greg's ankles.

   Despite the pain, Greg chortles as he extricates John's and Mycroft's phones and returns them to their owners. "Your state secrets, gentlemen."

   Greg also extracts a gun and a knife from Mary's person and hands them to John before placing handcuffs around Mary's wrists.

   John is clearly befuddled. "Where the fuck did she hide _those?"_ he questions, basically expressing what they all are thinking, because, quite frankly, her _tits_ and _arse_ didn't even fit in her clothes.

   Greg hands Mary off to the sergeants who are just arriving as backup. John looks devastated. Sherlock looks thrilled. John glares at Sherlock. " _What,_ Sherlock?"

   "John, I'm sorry to be the one who has to break it to you," (he's really not) "but Mary Morstan is one of the pseudonyms of a dangerous triple-agent. She will be facing numerous charges of treason."

   John stares at Sherlock. "You set her up." Then he looks at the other three. "You all set her up, didn't you?"

   "Fucking hell," he bellows, slams down his hand, and heads upstairs in a strop. And possibly to think about Mary in handcuffs while he's wanking.

   The four conspirators high-five one another in congratulations. Greg looks at Mycroft and mouths, "Make-up sex?"

   Grabbing Greg's arm a bit roughly, Mycroft says, "Got to get back to work," while Sherlock feigns gagging.

   Mrs. Hudson gives Sherlock a fond glance and tells him, "I'll just pop down to get your post, dear."

And Sherlock's fake gagging becomes genuine grinning.


	8. Chemistry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new housekeeper volunteers for a . . . ahem . . . job.

***several months later***

   After the busiest day in the history of the clinic, John Watson dreams of sitting on his arse, knocking back a pint, and watching a match, but as he opens the door of 221B he has an undeniable sense of deja vu.

   Except that deja vu smells like sulfur this time. Definitely sulfur.

   Sherlock is waiting. He grabs John's hand and yanks him out of the flat to the ubiquitous car, while assuring him that Mrs. Hudson is safely out of the building.

   As they sit across from each another in the back of the limo, John quietly barks at Sherlock, "We agreed, Sherlock. No sulfur."

   Sherlock slowly shakes his head from side to side. "No John, ultimately, we did not agree, because you refused to make equivalent concessions."

   John stares at Sherlock for a good half-minute, then cradles his head in his hands. After a few more moments, Sherlock covers each of John's hands with one of his own and slowly lowers them to John's lap without letting go.

   "John," he says, "I heard you might be looking for a housekeeper." And Sherlock lets go of John's hands to slowly pull his Belstaff coat teasingly upward towards his waist. John sees that Sherlock has a garter over his right trouser leg and tucked a feather duster inside.

   "John Watson, would you do me the honor of allowing me to run my feathers over your surfaces?"

   John is dumbfounded. And then he's thrilled, because he hasn't even risked _dreaming_ about this moment.

   For the first time in his life, he rebounds quickly and keeps his wits about him. "Perhaps I'd prefer a Hoovering," John teases, and there is no doubt that he also drags the tip of his tongue across his top lip.

   "That can be arranged," replies Sherlock as he recaptures John's hands in his own.

   John can't decide if this is the funniest or the sexiest thing that has ever happened to him. In the end, he decides it's both, and he leans over to capture Sherlock's lips in a warm, long, and loving kiss.

   As John pulls back, nothing is funny or sexy anymore. It's just . . . _right._

   "Sherlock Holmes, I've been in love with you since the day we met," he is finally allowed to admit.

   "And that was exactly the same day I discovered proof that love exists, John Watson."

   They are just arriving at the Holmes mansion, where the fake-gagging Mycroft himself opens the car door. John smiles, looks directly at Mycroft, grabs Sherlock's hand and asks, "Sherlock, how do you feel about banana splits?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first fic is fini! Yippee! :)


End file.
